Falling Fire
by foleste11
Summary: The Battle of the Last Alliance has begun, but it begins as it will continue with heavy losses on all sides. The Prince of the Woodland Realm watches his father get cut down in front of him, and finds himself King and commander in Middle Earth's biggest battle field. And when you're the King, you have to be that much stronger, don't you?


**A/N Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters or names in this. They belong to JRR Tolkien and, where applicable, to Peter Jackson/Warner Brothers and team.

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_"But there was in Thranduil's heart a still deeper shadow. He had seen the horror of Mordor and could not forget it. If ever he looked south its memory dimmed the light of the Sun, and though he knew that it was now broken and deserted and under the vigilance of the Kings of Men, fear spoke in his heart that it was not conquered for ever: it would arise again."_

_ - _JRR Tolkien_, Unfinished Tales, Part 2: The 2__nd__ Age,_ "Appendix B, The Sindarin Princes Of The Silvan Elves".

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The King had refused to submit to the supreme command of Gil-galad. How could he be so stupid, the Prince had thought. There was no reason not to join other than impatience and an ill-timed self-assurance that they could do this. The Prince had a terrible feeling that this would be their end, but he had had neither time nor privacy to share his misgivings with his father. If there had been some way to stop them, to force them to hold off until the rest of the host was ready… but the Prince had had no power to stop the army. Not that day.

They charged across the plain and the Prince had no choice but to follow his father and King. The King led the vanguard, and the Prince followed as captain of the main army. It all went so horribly wrong so very quickly. The vanguard was close to obliterated before they made it part way across the plain, and the main army soon combined with the remaining survivors of the vanguard. The Prince could see his father just ahead, and the King was surrounded.

"Ada! Pull back!" The Prince yelled, but the King could not hear him.

The Prince watched as the King slashed at his attackers, but the King's strength was failing. The Prince noticed blood running down his father's leg and tried to push through the crowds to reach him, but found himself stuck. He could only watch in horror as his father was struck in the chest by a morning star and collapsed to the muddy ground. The Prince yelled and screamed for his father and pushed aside his fellow elves and orcs alike, but no matter how hard he tried, he could not reach the King. An orc drew its sword and plunged it through the King's chest. The Prince screamed. Someone grabbed him around the waist and pulled him away. Thranduil felt the fight leave him. He was now King and Commander. Was it supposed to hurt this much?

"You're hurt. You're hurt. Come on." The soldier was saying as he dragged the new King back through the melee.

"No. Ada…"

"You're hurt."

Thranduil looked down and was shocked to see an arrow shaft sticking out of his right shoulder. He'd been shot. He felt faint.

"Make way! Make way for the Prince!" Two soldiers, with the new King supported in-between them, made their way back to the camp. "Make way for the Prince!" Did they not know he was now King? Thranduil stumbled as he walked, trying to maintain consciousness. When had a second soldier come to his aid? A path was cleared for them, men and elves alike moving aside for the wounded King. "Make way for the Prince!" They dragged him inside the tent used by the healers and sat him upon a bed.

"We must remove the shaft."

"Does anyone know where Lord Elrond is?"

"He is ever by the side of Gil-galad."

"Send word. Tell him the Prince of the Woodland Realm has been shot," the healer said. Thranduil sat in silence. He was done with words.

"Is it a Morgul arrow?" The soldier asked.

"Did any see the shooter?" Asked the healer.

"I don't know."

"Whether it is or not, we have to get the arrow out. You must remove his armour. He is not the only one here in need of assistance. There are too many injured and too few to help. I shall return."

One of the soldiers gently removed the new King's armour, but every movement made Thranduil shudder with pain. After a few minutes he was stripped to the waist, with his tunic and undershirt having been cut off. The black shaft still stuck out from his shoulder, contrasting against his white skin and the small amount of red blood that seeped from the wound.

"Healer! You must help him," the soldier called. Thranduil rested his head against the soldier's chest; his breast-plate was cool against the King's face.

The healer hurried over to the bed. He made a clicking noise with his tongue as he inspected the wound. "It is deep. It has almost come straight out the other side. His shoulder blade is stopping it." He touched Thranduil's shoulder lightly, but that alone made the new King moan with pain. "Get me a knife."

"No." Said the soldier. "You have asked for Lord Elrond. We must wait for him."

"I'm afraid we have not the time." Said the healer. "Lord Elrond may not be found for hours. In that time the prince may die. Or perhaps Lord Elrond may have been killed. Or perhaps he will hear that a princeling has been shot, but decide that he can make better use of his time by killing orcs than saving princes. Where's that knife?"

An assistant appeared and handed the healer a knife. "What are you going to do to him?" The soldier asked.

"We must remove the arrow. Lay him down, carefully now." The soldier and the healer carefully lay Thranduil down on the bed, who groaned as he was moved. "I'm going to need you to hold him down and try to hold him still."

"Can you give him nothing for the pain?"

"We have not the supplies. There is nothing to give, unless we are certain they are to survive. We cannot waste it on the dying."

"But he is the Prince!"

"He is your Prince, yes, but there are others here too. There are men and elves alike with injuries much worse than his to whom we can give no relief. Should I use everything on the first day, then what? No, I have nothing to give."

"But if it is a Morgul arrow…"

"If it is a Morgul arrow and if I can get it out and if he survives that, I shall give him athelas. Now hold him still." The healer positioned the knife alongside the shaft and pushed. The Prince screamed until the darkness overtook him and Thranduil fell into welcome unconsciousness.

When he awoke it was dark. Or was it always dark? Thranduil could not remember the last time there had been sunlight. He noticed straight away that he was still in his trousers and boots, but seemed to be in a different bed from the stretcher in the healing tent. This tent was quiet, despite the movement and general urgency of war outside.

"Hello," said a voice.

The Prince looked around and saw a familiar figure. All of what had occurred, of what he had seen came rushing back. "You came."

Lord Elrond gave a sad nod.

Thranduil went to prop himself up, but a jolt of pain down his arm and across his chest made him think twice. It was then that he realised he was in Lord Elrond's private tent, lying amongst the Lord of Imladris's furs. "Why have I been brought here?"

"It would not do for the King of the Woodland Realm to be seen in pain in the healing tent."

Thranduil gulped. So what he had seen was true. He wanted to cry. "Many already saw me."

"And more did not. It is better you recuperate here, and give the bed in the healing tent to someone else."

"There have been many casualties." It was not a question.

Lord Elrond nodded sadly. "The fighting continues. I expect it will last for some days." Thranduil noticed that Lord Elrond successfully managed to avoid giving exact details on the numbers of the dead and wounded, despite the fact he would know them.

"You did not have to come," Thranduil said, trying not to choke on his words.

"Yes I did," Lord Elrond replied.

"You are needed with Gil-galad."

"I know where I am needed most."

Thranduil covered his face with his left arm so that Elrond would not see his tears. It all felt too much. How could he be King? Kings did not cry…

"Do you recall what happened?" Lord Elrond asked gently.

Thranduil gave an awkward shrug with his left shoulder. "I saw Ada…" He could not continue for fear of his voice breaking.

"They say you did not realise you had been shot."

"No."

"I am sorry."

Thranduil wiped his eyes. Feeling underneath the furs with his left hand, he tenderly touched his bandaged chest and shoulder, wincing when his finger ran across the scar. "Was it a Morgul arrow?"

"No," Lord Elrond answered. "But the arrow-head was fish-hooked and therefore more difficult to remove. The wound is severe, but there will be no lasting effects, and in a few days' time you shall be ready to re-join the forces."

"Is that why I am still in my boots?" Thranduil made a noise that was half a laugh, half a cry.

Lord Elrond forced a smile. "You are now King and commander of the Silvan forces."

"I do not want this." Thranduil confessed. "Least of all now…"

Lord Elrond placed his hand on the King's left shoulder. "I am truly sorry that this is the fate that has befallen you, but it cannot now be altered."


End file.
